


One. Fucking. Thing.

by ggarbage235



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: A lot of cursing, Angst, Arguing, Body Image, Coming Out, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Sex, Injury Recovery, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Oneshot, Physical Therapy, Post-Divorce, eddie is fucking ruthless, i literally dont know how to tag things, like mans just snatched tf out of richies weave, this all starts bc richie doesnt do the laundry, this fic is literally just gay people screaming at eachother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:00:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27018466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ggarbage235/pseuds/ggarbage235
Summary: Richie and Eddie are both stressed from work and don't know how to communicate.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 5
Kudos: 92





	One. Fucking. Thing.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this awhile ago ngl  
> i have a few fics just fucking laying around in my google docs so i guess ill post it here

It’s 5:30 pm on an autumn day in Los Angeles. The air is sticky and heavy, not unusual to a California native, but extremely uncomfortable for the former New Yorker that Edward Kasprak prides himself in being. Another job interview has come and gone, and while his qualifications are more than enough to get him a solid position in a well-established company, the ongoing physical therapy he has to go through is a bit of a turn off for most businesses.

Putting his Cadillac into park, Eddie breathes deeply before resting his head on the steering wheel. He doesn’t blame companies for not wanting to hire him, who would want to have an employee that would have to take time off to go to therapy for his near-fatal “support beam” wound.

A shitty excuse, to say the least, a support beam to the chest was all that the rest of the Losers could come up with when they were being interrogated by the hospital staff treating Eddie. Though it doesn’t sound very realistic, it sounds much more believable than the idea that he was stabbed through the chest by an evil, child-eating space demon. Luckily the entire town of Derry is incompetent and would believe anything if it comes out of the mouth of THE William Denbrough.

Whether it was caused by a support beam or an evil clown, a severe injury is a severe injury and requires some form of rehabilitation. While Eddie is lucky his spine wasn’t completely severed, most of the nerve endings in his torso are fried. Weeks of bedrest made him weak and he had to re-learn how to walk. Less than a few months later, most motor function is back, but fried nerves are fried nerves.

Richie says that he shouldn’t be going back to work so soon, but Lord knows he wouldn’t (couldn’t) stop his little spitfire from doing anything.

It turns out almost dying was the experience it took for Eddie to finally start living. He called out his manipulative wife, got a divorce, accepted that he was gay, and started dating the love of his life all within a month of returning to Derry. Everything is different. It's good, it's so good, but it's also very stressful.

Eddie turns off his car and hops out of it. An Escalade is a big car for such a little man, especially now that it’s much harder to get into now that he’s been skewered, but he insists that it is much safer than Richie’s low riding sports car.

Heading to the door, Eddie shuffles through his keys, finding the one to Richie’s condominium. He insists that it’s “theirs” now, but Eddie just moved into it after Derry. The key has a little heart drawn in sharpie on the back end, Richie claiming it will be easier to find.

The door makes a soft click as its unlocked and subsequently opened, and Eddie can’t wait to get inside and have a nice quiet dinner with his partner.

He is immediately greeted with an ear to ear smile from Richie, who is seated at the kitchen island, head in his hands over a laptop that sits on the counter. He quickly gets up to kiss Eddie gently on the cheek, right next to the scar he received from the stab wound.

“How was the interview darling?” Richie grasps for the smaller man’s hand.

Eddie groans, reciprocating the gesture and taking Richie’s hand in his own, “Not great, can we just not talk about it?” he replies, receiving a nod in return.  
A quick kiss is exchanged before Eddie starts to make his way to their bedroom, eager to change out of his stuffy suit jacket and tie.

Eddie quietly closes the door to their room and kicks off his shoes, then he places them carefully into the closet. He pinches the bridge of his nose, an intense migraine has been plaguing him all day. Removing his suit jacket and tie are the easy parts, but when it comes to the white button-up underneath, there comes a bit of hesitation.

Though Eddie never necessarily thought of himself as attractive before being impaled, now, after the fact, he can hardly look at himself. There is not only a very obvious scar on his face but also a massive hole in his chest.

He unbuttons the first few buttons of his shirt, revealing the tip of his scar. The very top and bottom look similar to most scars; straight, clean, and slightly raised because it was surgically done. The actual wound however is concave, a fist-sized hole in which there is absolutely nothing between Eddie’s skin and his organs. It’s bumpy, rough, and jagged.

Eddie lets out a sigh, furrowing his brow. He takes his hand and runs his fingers along the indent, even to himself it feels disgusting and unnatural.

“I think it’s beautiful,” Richie tells him, but he knows it’s bullshit. He only says it because he’s enthralled with the idea of Eddie. The version of him he grew up with, the one without a massive hole in his chest and isn’t swimming in marriage and divorce baggage. He’ll get tired of it soon enough, and the thought of that isn’t something Eddie wants to play around with.

He quickly throws on a T-shirt, specifically one of Richie’s many ACDC shirts. It’s far too big, the neckline hitting the middle of his shoulder. It wasn’t made for him. It’s not his. But he’s allowed to do this now, he’s allowed to bathe in Richie’s scent and take his things.

But that’s being dependent. Eddie just got out of a crippling dependent relationship and is ready to dive right back into one.

Eddie rips the shirt back off quickly, replacing it in the drawer and grabbing one of his own from the closet.

He grabs his formal clothing and takes them into the bathroom. Right next to the shower there sits a laundry basket. Eddie lifts the lid with his free hand and starts to put his garments into it but stops.

“Are you kidding me?” he mutters. His eyes close, and his head pounds.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he snaps, throwing his clothes into the basket and stomping into the kitchen.

“What’s wrong Eds?” Richie steps in front of him, grasping for his shoulders in an attempt to calm him down.

“Don’t fucking ‘Eds’ me,” Eddie swats his hands away, causing the other man to recoil, “I asked you to do one fucking thing.”

Richie looks at him and cocks his head like he doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about. Eddie stares him down, and Richie simply reacts by shrugging his shoulders, knowing what he’s just gotten himself into.

“The fucking laundry,” Eddie says through his teeth.

Richie’s eyes open wide in realization and he quickly blinks it off, “Shit, honey sorry. I’ve been busy, I’m sorry,” He starts toward the bathroom, “I’ll do it now.”

“Busy?” Eddie stops him, “busy with what? Sitting on your ass all day?”

Richie is taken aback, he stands silently for a moment before processing what was just said, “You know this already, but I have to write my own shit now Eds,” He takes a step back, “Adam’s been on my ass for the past month about it.”

The sudden pushback was something Eddie hadn’t heard since they were all in Derry. Richie has been nothing but passive and nurturing during his recovery, but something had flipped a switch.

“Oh god forbid someone pushes you to actually work,” Eddie’s hands fly in multiple different directions, making Richie back away in fear of getting accidentally clipped, “I’m soooo sorry, I could never understand your turmoil!”

Eddie pushes past him, taking one side of the island and claiming it as his own, “I guess I’ll just do all this shit on my own and look for a job!” he slaps the palms of his hands onto the counter.

Richie counters by taking to the other side of the island, standing between it and the cabinets, “First of all,” he leans over the counter, “You shouldn’t even be working right now, you’re barely halfway through PT-”

“Oh my god,” Eddie interrupts him, “stop fucking calling it that.”

He runs his fingers through his hair, sharply exhaling, “It’s physical therapy,” he returns his gaze to his partner, “that I have to do because I was skewered like a fucking shish kabob!”

Richie covers his eyes at the last comment, running his hand over his glasses and down his face. He leans back and murmurs, “God don’t fucking say that.”

“Why? I’m just saying it how it is!” Eddie snips at him, “It’s not my fault you’re ‘traumatized’ by something that didn’t even happen to you.”

Eddie steps away from the island, frustrated. He throws both of his hands into his mess of thick, brown hair. He grits his teeth and awaits the sassy comeback, it doesn’t come.

Frustration bubbles inside of him as he whips back around, “You don’t have anything to say? That’s a fucking first.”

The silence is deafening. Richie simply stands there for a moment, his eyes wide and jaw agape. He lifts his glasses and rubs his eyes. His chest hitches mid-breath, and as he holds the air in his lungs he returns his glasses to their proper position.

Richie exhales, “Listen, I just-” he looks to the floor, “you shouldn’t be-”

Eddie explodes, “Don’t fucking tell me what I should or shouldn’t do!” He begins to pace back and forth, “I didn’t uproot my whole damn life just to come live with Myra 2.0.”

Without hesitation, Richie slams his open hands onto the counter, “Well your fucking doctor isn’t Myra, and he literally advised against it!”

Eddie spins on his heels coming to a halt, “So now you care about what my doctor says,” a cocky smirk is plastered across his face, “you sure as hell didn’t care when you were balls deep in my-”

“Hey hey, that was your idea,” Richie cuts him off, his face is bright red, “You act like you didn’t try to coax me into going for round 5.”

Eddie scoffs, “You’d be able to if you’d actually take care of yourself.”

“Oh fuck you,” Richie points in his direction, “That’s real rich coming from the person pushing himself to the fucking limit just to prove to his ex-wife that he can.”

“This isn’t fucking about her!” Eddie shouts, he returns to his incessant pacing.

He pulls at the strands of his hair, determined to feel something other than frustration. A numb feeling began to take over his fingers, not an unusual feeling as of recent. His entire body went numb at times, but he wasn’t at that point just yet.

“It isn’t about her,” Eddie mumbles, more to himself than the man standing across from him.

“Listen Eds, all I’m saying is you shouldn’t be getting this worked up when your fucking organs got rearranged,” Richie calmly replies, his face softens.

“Oh-ho ladies and gentleman, Richie ‘Trashmouth' Tozier!” Eddie snaps once again, “You can’t manage to keep a sex joke out of anything can you?”

Richie runs his hands down his face, clenching them into fists after they’ve finished, “It’s not a sex joke,” he says with a clenched jaw, “It’s what fucking happened!”

“God, you are impossible!” Eddie stops his pacing finally, “I know it might be hard for your pea brain to understand, but some of us have the drive to work.”

Richie extends his open hands, elbows bent at his side, “You don’t even need to work, we’re well off-”

“No, you’re well off,” Eddie points in his partner’s direction, before returning to the island “I’m up to my neck in divorce expenses and medical bills.”

Richie reaches for Eddie’s hand, “I told you I’d-”

“Shut the hell up!” Eddie quickly withdrawals his hand, his face curled into an ugly snarl, “I don’t want your financial help, I’m fine.”

He almost steps away before lowering his elbows to the counter and resting his head in his hands.

He is financially fine. He had a fair amount of savings and Myra was able to keep the house. They had a similar salary so he didn’t owe too much to her anyway, most of his expenses were lawyer-related. That wasn’t the issue. 

Working was all that Eddie had before. It was what he was good at, it was the thing that he took pride in doing well. Not only that, but his job was his escape. The only place where he was free from the constant nagging and worrying that made up his ever-failing marriage. If he didn’t have an escape, where would he go if things got like that with Richie? What would he have to be good at, to be proud of? He needed to work or he would be useless.

Eddie lifts his head after a moment, “If I’m not working, I’m not a productive member of society,” he glares at Richie, “and some of us want to do something with our lives.”

Richie stands there once again, jaw dropped. Eddie could see the chip in one of his front teeth, something he refused to get fixed as it “gave him character.” His eyes suddenly lit on fire. He snapped his mouth shut and leaned forward on the counter.

“Do something with my-” he cuts himself off this time, “are you fucking kidding me?!”

Richie put his hands into his hair, pushing it back to reveal his receding hairline before slamming his fist back down onto the island, “I’ve made something of myself!” he gestures to the rest of the room, “I live in a nice condo in Los fucking Angeles, and you’re telling me I haven’t done anything with my life?”

Eddie scoffs, shaking his head, “How did you even survive without me?” he looks Richie dead in the eye before pointing to the bedroom, “You can’t even do one simple chore!”

Richie snaps back almost immediately, “Well before now I haven't had to write shit from fucking scratch,” he gives a halfhearted smile, “but I'm trying to ‘do something with my life.’”

“Oh come on,” Eddie clenches his fists, “it can't be that hard, just write funny shit down and edit it!”

Richie stood fully up and turned around, hands on his hips, “Oh, and assessing risks is so hard,” returns his attention to Eddie, “just do the math, easy shit.”  
Eddie’s jaw drops. The nerve of this man.

“Alright Mr. Calculus Degree, it’s not just math,” he chops at the air, flat-palmed, “it takes fucking common sense, something that you definitely don’t have.”

At this point, Eddie has had it. He’s fuming, he can hardly feel his arms anymore. The only thing reminding him that they’re still attached to his body is the sight of them flying through his vision in a blur of frustration pent up stress. 

He loses track of what he’s saying, nothing makes sense as he and Richie exchange arguments, one thing leading to another. Eddie throws empty insult after empty insult at the other man. They take turns on the defense as one will bring up a valid point against the other. It’s a shallow exchange of mindless word-vomit before it all comes to a screeching halt.

“I cannot believe that I left my comfortable life in New York to come live with a lazy, self-centered, mentally unstable comedian!” Eddie turns away from the island, breaking the cycle.

He stares out into the living room. A moment passes before he processes what he just said, and he instantly regrets it. Richie has been nothing but supportive to him throughout this whole ordeal. He’s let him live with him, he’s constantly encouraged him throughout his recovery, all while dealing with his own shit. Eddie’s life wasn’t “comfortable” in New York. He was in a loveless heterosexual marriage, he wasn’t happy, he wasn’t living. He left New York to live with Richie because he loves him.  
Eddie releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding in. He closes his eyes and furrows his brow.

“I didn’t mean that,” he breathes.

Silence.

Eddie opens his eyes, “Rich?”

He turns his head to look over his shoulder. Richie is just standing there, leaned back on the cabinet, looking straight down at the floor. His glasses are fogged up and lines streaming down his face mark the trails of a few lone tears. He’s silent. For once in his life, Richard Tozier has nothing to say.

Eddie shifts the rest of his body to face him, expression softening. The tails of his eyebrows dip as his lips part ever so slightly. The soft click of them separating is the only noise that fills the room.

“Richie, baby,” Eddie mumbles, as he does Richie sinks to the floor.

Eddie rushes around the island. He drops onto his knees on the hard kitchen floor, he doesn’t feel it though. Richie’s legs are half up, they’re too long to fully extend in the space between him and the island. His elbows rest gently on his knees and his head is tucked into his hands, face hidden. His slow breaths contradict the slight tremor in his arms.

“Richie I’m sorry I didn’t-” Eddie touches his forearm, his thumb gently caressing the thick black hair that lies there, “I wasn’t thinking about what I was saying.”

He gets no response. Richie’s silence is not a usual occurrence, even when he’s recovering from an episode he’s always got something to say, some 2 cents to put in. Not this time.

Eddie weaves his arm under Richie’s, wrapping himself around his middle. He leans his head on the other man’s shoulder, bringing his knees underneath the longer pair, essentially curling around him. 

His hands move up and down Richie’s side, inhaling that same scent that was all over his shirt. The warm tang of Old Spice and, now, the salty scent of tears.

Eddie takes his left hand out from behind his lover and begins gently fiddling with his hair. Richie leans into his hand in return.

They sit there for a moment, surrounded by nothing but silence and the hum of the refrigerator as it kicks on. It gives Eddie time to think about everywhere he went wrong. “You shouldn’t have said this,” or “That wasn’t the time to bring that up,” shuffle through his brain until he can’t even remember what was being said anymore. It’s nothing but a blur of red hot anger up until that last comment.

Before Eddie can mentally kick himself any more than he already has, Richie removes his head from his hands, resting it on top of Eddie’s. He maneuvers his right arm so that it’s behind the other man.

It takes a minute before he speaks, “Am I really-”

Eddie cuts him off before he can finish the question. He doesn’t need to know what he was going to say, he already knew the answer, “No.” 

Richie inhales, “It’s hard,” he buries his face into Eddie’s hair, “I’ve spent so long trying to cover up the fact that I’m-”

He pauses, wrapping his other arm around Eddie, placing a poor attempt at a kiss into his scalp. He breathes in and out slowly and carefully, his chest shaking slightly.

“Now they want me to get on a stage and let it all out,” Richie tightens his grip on the other man, “right after all of this shit went down.”

Eddie furrows his brow, he didn’t know this. He hardly knows anything about Richie’s job besides the fact that he wasn't writing his material before, and now he is. He knows nothing of the deadlines, when and if Richie is going to go on another tour, which would be a surprise considering how often he wakes up screaming in the middle of the night. It’s just now hitting him that he never asks about it, and Richie never talks about it.

“What do they want you to do sweetheart?” Eddie inquires.

Richie sighs, “Adam wants me to write some coming out routine,” he ducks his head into Eddie’s hair, “To like, explain it I guess. He says I’ll ‘ruin my image’ if I don’t bounce back.”

Eddie shakes his head, "That's fucking stupid," he places a kiss onto his partner's chest, "does he not know all this shit that you're going through?"

Richie laughs, "You want me to tell him about the murderous clown?"

The joke doesn't land, and Eddie simply shakes his head. This prompts Richie to lift his face out of the brown mop of hair it was buried in. He looks down at Eddie, whose head is resting gently on his chest.

Eddie returns the gesture, looking up at the other man. Richie’s glasses are only half on his face, they’re filthy. Little patches of moisture have dried leaving large translucent marks on the lenses. Eddie reaches up and takes them off of his face, leaving nothing to obscure his big, blue eyes. Richie immediately squints in response, which is understandable considering he’s nearly blind without them.

Richie has always had the eyesight of a mole, and even though he hates his glasses, Eddie makes sure to remind him frequently that he looks stupid without them, so he shouldn’t be so critical. He was always careful when cleaning Richie’s glasses, as they are the only thing that allowed him to see. Eddie, having 20/20 vision himself couldn’t bear the thought of not being able to see the world around him without assistance.

Grasping the corner of his shirt, Eddie let a hot breath hit the lenses. He rubs them gently between his covered fingers before looking through them to search for any smudges. It feels as if he’s looking through a magnifying glass, but at least it was a clean magnifying glass.

Eddie gently places the pair back onto Richie’s face, he blinks a few times before resuming eye contact.

Richie gives a weak smile, “Thanks,” he whispers, wiping his cheek with the palm of his hand.

“No more crying,” Eddie grabs his face with both of his hands, smushing his cheeks, “Alright?”

Richie attempts to nod, his face still nearly expressionless.

Eddie breathes in heavily, closing his eyes, “Richie, baby, I’m sorry,” he brings the other’s head down placing a small kiss on his forehead, “I didn’t know what I was saying. You know I didn’t mean any of that, right?”

Richie sits there for a moment, obviously fighting another round of tears at his lover’s request. He shrugs slightly and Eddie’s heart drops. He shouldn’t have said it in the first place, and Richie’s self-esteem is so low it’s hard to get it back up once it’s knocked down. Another thing they’ll have to work on.

“Sweetheart,” Richie sinks into Eddie’s grasp as he says it, “I’ve just been stressed lately, and I shouldn’t take it out on you. You’ve been nothing but supportive.”

Eddie looks deep into those sad blue eyes, “And I love you.”

A soft smile curls onto Richie’s lips, “I love you too Eds,” he says in response. He doesn’t even need to think about it, the words simply fall out his mouth.

The larger man closes his eyes and furrows his brows, “I get it, your work is your passion, it has to be frustrating not being able to do that,” he looks back into Eddie’s eyes, “I’m the one who should be sorry, I shouldn’t be stupid and forget shit like that.”

Eddie shakes his head. He forgot that that was how all of this started. The fucking laundry. That’s why he got so angry? Of all the things that Richie does to purposely piss him off and a silly little mistake like that was what did it.

“Nothing warranted that response sweetheart,” he leans into Richie’s broad chest, “We need to actually talk to each other about shit and communicate. I need to talk about shit and communicate.”

Richie rests his head on Eddie’s once more. He breathes slowly, and his heartbeat matches the idle pace, Eddie can hear it thumping through the layers of skin, fat, and muscle in between.

A moment passes before Richie places a large hand on Eddie’s back. He ponders something for a beat before asking:

“So, how was your day?”

**Author's Note:**

> well I for one think i did a good job with the dialogue, the rest maybe not so much but it is what it is.


End file.
